Mr. Kurihara's Return

By Mary-Jo Balman

Yomimasu Kurihara is at it again. In this, his latest escapade, the master criminal
and master of disguise is being pursued throughout Japan for one of the most
brilliant crimes of his lucrative career.

While this personable and charming anti-hero wins the enjoyment and admiration
of all those who follow his exploits, his hapless victims, in light of their avaricious
natures, are far from appreciative of his talents. Mr. Kurihara's intellect, imagination
and sense of humor, coupled with no small degree of good fortune, serve him well.
But, even Mr. Kurihara, whom most women find irresistable, surprisingly discovers
that when it counts, he is not that fortunate in matters of the heart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 18, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468576191

Mary-Jo Balman

Mary-Jo Balman is a world traveler whose books are set in various parts of the world. Her colorful characters, entertaining dialogue and insight into human foibles evoke the reader's own awareness of the human condition.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

WINTER, 1995—FURUMAKI, JAPAN

Wet snowflakes were beginning to cover the letters in front of the train station. Their rapid descent was visible only as they raced through the arc of yellow light which illuminated the sign. It read, FURUMAKI.

It was six-thirty in the evening, and already, a Sunday-like depression, brought about by the wintry darkness, had fallen upon the village. Furumaki was small—smaller even than its neighboring town, Misawa-shi, which lived up to its literal translation of Three Swamps, and from where most of the passengers usually came.

Normally, a cold, cheerless evening such as this did not discourage most travelers hereabout from journeying to more inviting parts—not even for a day. Tonight, however, seemed to be an exception.

In this remote area of northern Tohoku, bordered by small rice paddies and dissected by mud roads—now-hardened and covered with snow—there was a stillness that almost suggested death. For in the almost soundless evening, all that could be heard was the gentle crunch-crunch of the unbroken snow under the stranger’s steps as he neared the deserted-looking depot.

He had been coming from the direction of Misawa, keeping to the side of the road, yet ever watchful of stepping too close to the edge for fear of slipping into the barely discernible, snow-filled benjo ditch—the water-filled gutter—now almost too icy for the people living in the houses along the road who normally used it for washing clothes and other functions. When he saw the light coming through the window of the waiting room, he quickened his steps, suddenly anxious to leave the snow and biting cold for the warmth that he optimistically anticipated inside.

The waiting room at the Furumaki depot had been sealed from the hostile elements outside until the hurrying figure, a thick, grey muffler wound around his mouth, the ends neatly tucked into his heavy woolen overcoat and a tight-fitting knitted cap pulled down over his ears, lifted his wet, shiny, black-booted foot onto the snow-packed threshold and pushed open the door. Immediately, the accumulation of snow against the door blew into the waiting room and was quickly transmuted into small puddles by the warmth that came from the space heater squatting beside a refreshment counter.

The man removed his wet eyeglasses and wiped them off before he put them on again. He then took off his cap and unbuttoned his coat. He was taller than average, slender, with neatly trimmed silver hair and a distinguished mustache. He pursed his lips and noisily sucked in the still—cold air around his face.

Huyu ni, kaze ga yoku hukimasu!

As he muttered to himself about the cold, blustery winter wind, he slapped his gloved hands against his coat, causing a dispersal of melting snow to augment the wetness of the floor.

"Oya ma! Oh my! Celsius minus 25 deguree desho! Well, if not, it certainly feels like below freezing!"

The traveler lifted his eyebrows as he noted that there were only two other people in the waiting room in addition to an old woman tending the refreshment stand. He approached the ticket cage and, after purchasing a ticket, turned and noticed a stack of newspapers next to the stand. He walked over, dropped a 100-Yen note onto the counter and helped himself to a copy of the evening edition of the Asahi Shimbun, the Morning Sun Newspaper. Without asking the old woman for his change, he headed toward an unoccupied, highly-polished, wooden-backed bench and sat down. He placed his pigskin overnight bag on his lap, removed his gloves and blew noisily on his hands. After this abortive effort to warm his hands, he unfolded the newspaper and scanned the headlines. Seeing nothing significant, he then began an intensive search through the remaining pages.

"Nani-mo arimasen, he said aloud. Nothing. Still nothing has been reported. How can that be?"

He shoved the newspaper between the slats of the bench, folded his arms and looked about. How gloomy it is here, he mused. "What a pity I am not on a train going to Tokyo this evening. And worse, since I am to distance myself even farther from the capital tonight, I can look forward to nothing but a dismal provincial landscape. Dismal and icy. Yes, and of course, the snow will surely freeze just because I am taking this train! Winter, after such a delightful autumn, has swept from the sky and the earth all illusions of life. Ah, that is very good, Kurihara. Said like a poet! Quickly, write it down before you forget it."

He stared at the door and narrowed his eyes as if in expectation of more passengers.

"How odd that there are not more people here! Only two—that pathetic-looking old man and his wife. Three, if you count the corpse behind the counter.

"Now, now, Mr. Kurihara, have respect for your elders. What a terrible thing to say.

"Ah so desu. Sumimasen. Yes, you’re right. So sorry. I quite forgot myself for a moment. Yet, you must admit they all look as though they are merely waiting to be escorted into the next world to join their ancestors. How pitiful. And what are they doing out on such a night as this? What, I wonder? He with his bony face, his skin so tight and white there are no wrinkles left and she, humped over in half with her heavy nimotsu on her back. What a lovely custom—that the old lady is the one who must carry the heavy bag on her back. I must remember to thank my imperial ancestors for that one. Look at them—so still they almost don’t look alive. Maybe they are my imperial ancestors—in disguise—placed here just to watch over me! Not that I need spectators. No, actually, solitude is much more preferable in this type of work. At least for the time being… until the curtain falls on our little drama, ne? Don’t you agree, Mr. Kurihara?"

The man took his newspaper from the bench and placed it in his inside pocket. He then rose, walked to the window facing the platform and, with a rapid circular motion, rubbed away a small portion of the condensation on the window. His nose almost touched the window as he strained to see down the tracks in hope of sighting his train. Again, he pursed his lips, breathed in noisily and slowly moved his head from side to side.

"Look Kurihara, look at that platform—so still and lifeless. One employee out there. Doing what? What? What is he doing? Moving and stooping. Look! Now he seems to be staring into the waiting room. Ne, don’t you see, he is probably wishing he could come in and warm himself up. Why doesn’t he? Why does he continue to stoop and pick up wrappers and cigarette butts when no one is here to supervise him? How pathetically predictable people become from a lifetime of obeying orders. Look at him… like a tired shadow. Even he is depressing. If I could see his face in that darkness, I am certain it would be numbed with the cold, completely empty of expression, devoid of hope. Ah so, for some people, life is a continual struggle."

He turned away from the window and released an audible sigh.

Why did I come thirty minutes early? What a stupid idea! Thirty minutes to kill among this festive gathering! Ah well, let me see if I can wake up the corpse. Uh, excuse me, I mean the old woman.

He approached the refreshment counter and drummed his fingers on the glass top as he addressed the old concessionaire.

Sumimasen, obasan.

He received no response, raised his voice slightly and repeated.

Excuse me, grandmother…

The old woman’s rheumy eyes opened, and she looked up in annoyance. The man placed 200 Yen into the old concessionaire’s shaky, wrinkled hand and politely said, "O-kashi, kudasai. I’d like a pastry, please."

The old woman lifted herself from her stool, fumbled among the attractive sugared confections, selected one, wrapped it in plain white paper with agonizingly slow movements and handed it to her customer. He took the proffered tidbit, bowed slightly and solemnly thanked her. "Domo arigato, obasan. Thank you very much, grandmother."

The old woman tightened her mouth, nodded her head, said nothing and sat down again on her wooden stool.

The man walked back toward his bench, seated himself and unwrapped the small package. Pensively, he began to nibble at the small, hard cake in his hand as he awaited his train. After a few seconds, a frown appeared on his face.

Why did I buy this? I don’t even like sweets!

Not wanting the old woman to see what he was about to do, he rose, passed by a trash receptacle and surreptitiously dropped the offending delicacy into it. He then sat down and began to talk to himself again.

"Ah. Now, what is our next form of entertainment, Mr. Kurihara?

"It might be a good idea to meditate for a while.

"Kurihara, Kurihara, such a simplistic solution for a boring wait. No, no. I am much too excited for that.

"Well, the only other activity that seems to be open is to go out and help that poor soul pick up cigarette butts.

You win, Kurihara, I will try to meditate.

The man sat down again and closed his eyes. After two minutes, they were wide open. He got up and impatiently began to walk back and forth, looking, now and then, through the space he had cleared on the window, to see whether the train was coming.

At six forty-five, the stationmaster opened the doors to the platform and then returned to his warm little cubicle behind the ticket window. A chilling wind blew into the waiting room. Only when the train crept into the station five minutes later did any of the passengers start to move outside. The lone employee, whose life history had been defined by the traveler’s neatly compartmentalized mind was nowhere in sight.

The stranger allowed the old couple to precede him through a turnstile through which the passengers had to pass in order to reach the platform. Ordinarily, the stationmaster would have been at the turnstile to examine their tickets. Tonight, however, since he had sold only three and had seen only three people waiting for the train, he felt there was no need to leave the comfort and warmth of his cozy, little office.

The old man preceded the woman, inching along, his pace drastically limited by his spindly arthritic legs. Kurihara was becoming so impatient that he tried to force himself to transfer his thoughts to anything but getting through the turnstile.

They could be my own venerable parents, he reminded himself. I should be more patient. After all, someday I may be just like them… should I be so unfortunate as to live so long.

Yet, when the old woman became stuck in the turnstile because of her voluminous backpack and bulging plastic shopping bags filled with bentos, oranges, apples, small packages of dried cuttlefish and other delicacies they were planning to eat on the train, he could stand it no longer. With controlled patience, he bent down to address her.

"Sumimasen, obasan. Excuse me, grandmother."

He then slipped under the railing next to the turnstile, and, anxious to get out of the cold, half ran, half walked to the waiting train.

"Ah, here we are. Look how icy the steps are. It would not surprise me if the old lady falls flat on her nimotsu, crushing their carefully-packed lunches, when she tries to climb these steps. And yet, not one train employee here to help the passengers into the train. Ne, if this had been Tokyo, you would see train conductors all over the station!"

His car was marked with two destinations: Tokyo—Aomori, and beneath that, the number of the car.

"Number 17. Why number 17, when my well-trained, perceptive eyes see only six cars?

"Oh come now, Mr. Kurihara. Kamawanai! It doesn’t matter! Just get on the train and concentrate on the important things!"

He then proceeded up the steps and found a seat in car number 17.

Ah. Here we are finally inside. So. At least it’s not as cold in here in spite of the open windows.

He slipped across the seat and placed his pigskin bag beside him.

"De mo—however—it’s good to be leaving. One day in Misawa is a long time… one hour even… but… what must be done must be done, ne?"

The man stared into the blackness of the window.

"Nani! What! What is this! Do I see another old man on this train? Who are you, you with such neatly trimmed silver hair? And such a distinguished mustache! Here, can you see me behind those thick, bifocal glasses? Who are you?

"Watakushi wa Kurihara desu.

"Ah so. But of course. You are Mr. Kurihara. Yes, I do remember you. My, but you have aged, Mr. Kurihara. Ikaga desu ka?

"Why I am fine, thank you. A bit tired. I am not as young as I was this morning, you know. And you?

"I am very well, Kurihara-san."

The man’s face became pensive.

Yes. So far so good. A game, however, that could have an unfortunate ending with a less skillful player. I wonder, is it enough? Perhaps more dark shadow under the eyes? A few more lines?

He opened the overnight bag beside him and took out a hand mirror. He closely examined his eyes and the faintly darkened crevices on his forehead. He then smoothed out his neatly clipped mustache.

Perfect, he declared with satisfaction. "My, what a distinguished looking gentleman! How old would you say? Sixty? Sixty-five? I do believe I could be taken for a grandfather… well, a young grandfather, ne?"

He addressed his image in the window.

"Komban wa, ojiisan. Good evening, grandfather. And how are your two lovely grandchildren?"

He stared for a moment and then knitted his white eyebrows together.

"Why am I smiling? How terrible I look!

"Idiot! That is why you smile. Because Kurihara is not Kurihara!"

"Makura to ketto ga arimasu!" A porter came down the aisle shouting at the near-empty car.

Ah so, observed the traveler, "pillows and blankets. No, I do not need a pillow. A blanket, perhaps. But no, they look so thin it would be like covering myself with a sheet of newspaper. I remember my honorable father always rented one pillow when we were on holiday and passed it around to each of us for twenty minutes at a time to sit on. What a luxury, when even a short trip on these hard seats seems like an eternity!

"Hai, Kurihara. Yes, Kurihara, this part of the country seems to bring back many memories, ne? It certainly has been a long time since you have set foot in Misawa, ne?

"Yes, and even longer since I have traveled at night.

"And even still longer since you have traveled like this in such a train in winter, ne?

"Yes, that was many years ago, Kurihara-san. Ano . . . Yet… I noticed a lot of progress has been made since then in Three Swamps. New restaurants, the streets all lit with bright yellow lights… just think of it. Lights at night. And paved roads. Did you notice that almost all the roads are paved now? And oh yes. Now, most of the signs in the station are written in both Hiragana and English. Have you noticed?

"How could I not notice such astounding advances? One over the door… Deguchi. ‘Exit’. And there was Kippu. ‘Tickets’. Let me see… ah yes, Kin-en. ‘No Smoking’. And Nimotsu. ‘Baggage’. Bag-gage. What a nice sound! I believe I prefer ‘bag-gage’ to ‘nimotsu’. This evening, I do not have any ‘bag-gage’. Well, unless you consider my overnight bag. No, no need for ‘bag-gage’ on this journey. But anyway, the important ‘bag-gage’ is here, right next to my heart, ne?

"Well, the porter with the pillows is gone. I hope he fares better with the old couple than he did with me. I wonder if she is out of the turnstile yet? It may turn out that I shall be the only one on this train tonight. Yes, in that case, I doubt that there will be much business for pillows. So! Perhaps I should have rented one now that I can afford the luxury of keeping it all to myself. Yes, I might then be able to relax a little better.

"Dekinai! Impossible! You might get too comfortable, Kurihara-san.

"Yes, you are quite right. Nani! What! Do I hear the old couple talking to the vendor? Can I believe my ears? I thought he had gone. Oh, how fortunate I am! They are in this very same car with me! Well, perhaps he will rent to them and in this way, the railway will be able to afford to hire someone to clean up this grimy train.

"So. We are all alone—we three—in the entire car. Let us hope now that we don’t pick up anyone else before the train starts. The old couple… they are of no consequence, I am sure. But… there could very well be others… who might… interfere… with my… plans, ne?

"Yes, there could very well be. I need to be thinking constantly. And why didn’t I think to pick up a bento before I started out as I am sure the old couple have, if I am not mistaken about those boxes I noticed in her shopping bag. I wonder… will the esteemed chefs of the Japanese National Railroad be offering dinner on this train?

Imbecile! Do you think you are on the ‘Bullet’ train and can be served in a dining car?

The man glanced out the window, ignoring his reflection and trying to distinguish the vague shapes in the darkness.

"Useless to try to see anything. Look how streaked with grease the window is. I can actually see the shape of a head where someone was sleeping against it. Tondemonai! Outrageous! What if I should accidentally doze off and lean my head against it? Disgusting! Here. Let me move away from the window a bit. Ah, this is surely no way for a sensitive and refined man such as I to travel. But, what must be done, must be done, ne?"

An invisible engine began to wheeze. And then, a slight start.

Good. We are starting.

The train shuddered and then stood still again. A hissing, white vapor rushed out from the axles. The man leaned forward in his seat in expectation.

Yes, perhaps now. And perhaps some of that steam will reach this icebox and warm us up!

The train remained motionless as two men approached from the far end of the station. One was propelling a motor-driven mail cart which clanked along the platform. The other was walking along the side of the cart facing the waiting room, his head bent down in the wind and his hand on the sack of mail. Kurihara looked out the window just as they passed directly under him.

"Ne. Look how the government wastes my money. Two men to load one mail bag. One to drive the cart and another to do what? To see that the sack does not fall off the cart?

"And such a sack, Kurihara. Look how undernourished it is!

"Ah so desu, That’s right, Kurihara-san, but I do detect a few bulges, which means that everyone in town must have mailed a letter today.

"Everyone but a recent occupant of the Misawa Inn, ne?

"Hai, he will wait until he reaches Aomori to mail his little package. Ano . . . but… if we don’t leave pretty soon, I shall begin a philosophical discourse on the contents of that grey sack."

Even in the semi-darkness, he was able to read the inscription on the mailbag.

"‘YUBIN NO NIPPON’, he read aloud. Mail of Japan. Think of it. A bagful of sadness, joy, good wishes and lies; swindles and solicitations… Pandora’s mailbag. Ah, what a witty figure of speech! What a pity I am alone."

Ten minutes more passed, during which time, the man kept looking at his watch and grumbling to himself about the delay. Then, there was a start so imperceptible that only one such as the traveler would notice it.

We’re leaving. Dare I believe it? Could I be so fortunate? Ah. Now, I feel safe. There is nothing so painful as an unnecessary delay. Observe, my friend. It finally gets started only to move backward and forward like a swimmer afraid to jump into the icy water.

The train lurched and began to move forward at a lethargic pace.

"Look how we are now speeding along… what an excellent train! Just two stops before Aomori. Normally, that should take not quite an hour and a half. But on this train, and in this weather, I would say we would be fortunate to arrive there by morning, ne?

"Oh come now, Kurihara-San, Mr. Kurihara. Surely you cannot be serious.

"Well, perhaps sooner than morning. Still, we will have to endure a short overnight stay, the ferry next day to Hakodate, and then even more time-consuming deviations. What a tedious way to get to Sapporo! I could be there in less than an hour by plane. Well, I cannot say that this journey has been too memorable so far, except, of course, for those exciting moments when the old lady became stuck in the turnstile. I suppose that will be the high point of this trip… unless I die from boredom before it is over.

"Oya ma! Look at that! What a draft is coming from this window! It is so cold and snowy outside and yet, some hyakusho—some peasant—has left the window partly open. Let me move over and close it. Oof! It is stuck.

"Naturally. What did you expect, Mr. Kurihara?

"Well, I thought surely it would close electronically, Mr. Kurihara.

"Really, Mr. Kurihara? Or perhaps it is voice activated. Why do you not try speaking to it?

Very well, let us not get carried away with our devastating wit, Mr. Kurihara. Ah! There. Now I have it.

The man slammed the window tightly shut and sat back, placing his elbow on the sill. Immediately, he pulled it off.

"How annoying! Why did I not notice this sooner? The sill and even part of the seat are wet from the snow. There, now I suppose I must dry them off myself. With what? My own tissues? Here. Let me begin with the windowsill. Aja! Well, I’ll be! Look how black the tissues have gotten! The sill is covered with soot! Oya ma! Don’t they ever clean these trains? This one seems to be run by ghosts! Look! Not a person in sight. All right. Done. Hmm, I can detect the marvelous aroma of dried ika from here. I wonder if the old woman would consider selling me some of that cuttlefish…

"Ne. Let’s see. Did I search the newspaper well? Did I overlook the back columns? Let me look again. How is it possible it has not been reported? This is very disconcerting. It is as though a marvelous play has been performed to an empty theater. Let me see. Perhaps it is stuck between some small articles on the back page. No, nothing. Well, perhaps it is for the best. All right, then. Let’s just read what the Liberal-Democratic Party is up to now. Ah so, Prime Minister Takeshita to visit the U.S. to discuss trade negotiations again… the Diet is still being challenged by demonstrating students… and no wonder… one is often struck by the lack of brilliance in many of their decisions… but then again, those of the United States and Europe are hardly any better. And the editorials… ne, a waste of time. Somehow, I am finding it difficult to concentrate on the news today. Ordinarily, I am very concerned about the mistakes my government makes, but tonight… tonight, I have other things on my mind, ne?

"Nani! What! Do my ears deceive me? I hear the little bell. How marvelous! There is a dining car. Now we can dine in splendor! What do you think of that, Kurihara-san?

"No more than I deserve, Kurihara-san.

"Although on second thought, I think I would rather wait until we